


Et Anima Mea ... ?

by LyricalFury



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, F/M, Friendship/Love, Love, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-24
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-01 21:26:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8638669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyricalFury/pseuds/LyricalFury
Summary: One month after the Final Battle, a new face comes to Hogwarts in the form of Rocana Rowntree, Obscurmagus and witch of unsurpassed power. Severus Snape lies in a coma in the infirmary recovering from Nagini's bite. When Rocana discovers the potion master's dark secret, will she be able to save him from the torment that has taken up residence in his soul, or will the darkness claim him once and for all ...





	1. Initium Novus (The New Beginning)

**Author's Note:**

> Et Anima Mea ... ? (And My Soul ... ?)
> 
> A/N: This humble little fic is the product of a “what if” moment. As in, what if Severus Snape stepped into a cross between “Somewhere in Time” and “The Picture of Dorian Gray?” There is some canon here, but I’ll be taking a fair amount of artistic license as well. Ob … viously. I have been enjoying all of your wonderful fics for quite some time and decided it was time to contribute. I plan to update about once a week. This fic has completely possessed me and is trying to claw its way out, so I will not be abandoning it. I hope you all like it. I graciously welcome kudos, comments and critiques. 
> 
> Disclaimer: All recognizable people, places and things are the property of J.K. Rowling. The only things I lay claim to are: the character of Rocana Rowntree, the term “Obscurmagus”, the plot, and the spells that Rocana has up her sleeve.
> 
> See End Notes for some tidbits about the new kid in town.

The lone witch stood gawping like a tourist, her amethyst tresses lazily furling and eddying from under her Victorian top hat like a sleepy dervish in the summery winds. To say the castle remained beautiful, despite its recent damage, would have been a travesty of an understatement. She indulged in a fleeting moment of self-pity for the ‘never was.’

She had been homeschooled, nay, cloistered. Not because her parents thought a school had nothing to teach her, rather they thought no school -- not even the wizarding kind -- could handle their daughter, nor help her to control the magic that spontaneously burst forth from her with a power only the greatest witches and wizards possess.

As a baby, her mobile whirred without its motor. Her stuffed animals lined themselves up along the wall next to her crib like sentinels to witness her slumber. She thrashed and keened like an injured beast when touched. The tantrums of her ‘terrible twos’ played havoc on many a home furnishing with a mere well-aimed glance. No. No school, even those designed to house her kind, could possibly have been equipped to rein in her power.

Of course, the Quill of Acceptance had recorded her birth. And it didn’t take long for word of her outbursts to travel amongst the magical of Hammersmith. There were tuts and muttered assumptions regarding this strangest of children. _She was born at the crossroads … She carries the mark, she does … Why, it’s as if Hecate herself came down and anointed her … Born on the eleventh day of the eleventh month? No wonder the gel has such power … And a Muggle-born no less?_

The scent of verbena riding on the breeze pulled her from her remembrances with a gentle, lemony tug. She looked down at the sturdy little terrier waiting dutifully beside her. The dog peered up at her from underneath a hefty set of black eyebrows. “Are you ready, Haggis?”

He shook his head with a half-sneeze, half-snort, and took off ahead of her at a jaunty trot, head held high, tail in the air.

As she neared the wrought iron gates, she noticed an extremely large man approaching from the other side. He lifted a meaty arm in greeting as he lumbered towards her.

“Mornin’. Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper o’ Keys an’ Grounds at Hogwarts an’ Professor o’ Care o’ Magical Creatures. Everyone jus’ calls me Hagrid. I ‘spect yeh’ll be Miss Rocana Rowntree, then?”

Rocana gave a polite smile and nodded her assent.

“An’ who’s this handsome little feller?”

“This would be Haggis the Ham,” she said gesturing towards her furry companion. “You can see how he acquired his nickname.”

Living up to his moniker, Haggis sat up on his rump and moved his little arms up and down in a ‘two-handed’ wave.

“We’ll ge’ along jus’ fine, you an’ me. An’ I gotta coupla friends fer yeh too. There’s Fang, and sometimes Fluffy comes ‘round fer a visit. He’s got two more heads’n you but yeh don’ need ter worry abou’ tha’.”

As Rocana stood there, eyebrows on the rise, wondering whether or not Hagrid was having her on, Hagrid boomed, “Follow me!” and started heading toward the castle, Haggis happily in tow. _Hmmph. And dogs are supposed to be loyal creatures …_

With a shake of her head, Rocana lifted the hem of her champagne-coloured riding robes, levitated her trunk, and hastened her gait to keep up with the helpful half-giant. As they came nearer to the castle, she could finally see the heavier damage from the Final Battle that had yet to be repaired. Struck with a thought, Rocana asked, “Hagrid, how is the castle being repaired?”

“Oh, tha’,” Hagrid said, slowing his momentum to let her catch up. “The castle’s been repairin’ herself some. The professors and some students are helpin’ too. Why’d yeh ask?”

“Let’s just say I learned to repair things at a young age.”

Hagrid gave a hearty chuckle and leaned in toward Rocana as if they were about to share a great secret. “I imagine yeh were prob’ly showin’ a little spontaneous magic as a wee tyke, weren’ yeh?”

“I see my reputation precedes me,” Rocana said with an easy laugh.

“Well, yer kinda like a legend o’ sorts in the wizardin’ world. Sort of a young female Dumbledore, if yeh will, Merlin rest his soul. I haven’ seen the teachers this excited about summat in quite a while. I reckon yeh’re jus’ what this place needs righ’ now,” he said with a wink.

“That’s kind of you to say, Hagrid. Thank you.” Rocana already felt a soft spot growing in her heart for Hagrid. He had a calm benevolence about him that made it effortless to let one’s guard down and laugh freely in his presence.

“Ah! Well, here we are. Minerva’ll be waitin’ fer yeh in her office.” Hagrid looked down at Haggis. “This is the end o’ the line fer you, wee lad. Yeh’ll be comin’ back ter the hut with me. Say goodbye ter yer mum.”

Haggis threw his head back with a ‘rooo-oo-oo’ and stood up to paw at Rocana’s leg. She crouched down to give him a quick scrub around his ears.

“You be a good boy for Hagrid, Mister. We can’t have you wearing out your welcome. I’ll be along to visit you later.”

“Yeh can come by teh see him anytime yeh like, Miss Rowntree.”

“Rocana, please. And thank you for looking after him for me.”

“Aw, ‘s me pleasure. Come on, Haggis. Let’s go meet all yer new friends.” And with that, Hagrid and Haggis headed back down the path towards Hagrid’s hut. Rocana felt a sense of peace. Even though she couldn’t keep Haggis with her in her quarters, she knew that he would be more than well cared for in Hagrid’s company.

 

**~~** 

 

Rocana made her way to the third floor of the Headmaster’s Tower. She had already been offered the job; it was just a matter of signing her contract with the headmistress, acclimating herself to life in the grand castle, and designing her lesson plans before the students returned for start of term.

She kept her eyes forward, receiving pointed looks and whispers from the portrait denizens as she passed. Never before had she felt the magnitude of so many eyes upon her. As she paused in front of the stone gargoyle guarding the staircase to the headmistress’s office, even _it_ slowly opened one eye to assess her. Then, with a sound like churning gravel, the monolith spoke but one word in its thirsty voice: “Finally.”

In the time it took her to blink in surprise, the gargoyle was back to its stony slumber. Rocana was left to wonder if it had, in fact, moved in the first place. Perhaps the mysterious aura that permeated the castle was also permeating her brain. _No, I definitely heard it_. She mentally shook herself and said, “Toffee Eclairs,” then waited to see if the gargoyle would do anything more than move aside. Nothing. She floated her trunk to settle on the floor and placed her hat on top.

As she rode the moving stairs to the top of the tower, she wondered at what the gargoyle had meant. _Finally? I’m five minutes early. Surely it wasn’t implying that I’m late for my appointment … Did it somehow know that, had things gone in a natural direction, I should have been a student here?_

These thoughts tumbled through her mind until she reached her final destination. As soon as she crossed the threshold into Professor McGonagall’s office, she was awestruck once more. Her eyes roved over the room like sponges, absorbing the scene before her. She suddenly felt just how she imagined every first year would at seeing these sights for the first time: like a mote adrift in a vast, magnificent world. The floor-to-ceiling shelves were filled with little nooks, every one of them niched with some arcane trinket or frippery. On one spindly table stood a device that resembled an armillary sphere, whirring within and around itself. As she neared the curious object, she noticed little plumes of bluish, odorless smoke puffing out at intervals. Just as she reached out a petite, satin-gloved hand -- looking wasn’t enough, she simply _had_ to touch and discover its secrets --

“Ah! Miss Rowntree, welcome to Hogwarts.”

Rocana yanked her hand back like a child caught with their hand in the biscuit tin. The prim headmistress had been momentarily hidden behind a stone pillar as she descended the staircase.

“Good Morning, Headmistress,” Rocana said, a blush forming on her cheeks from being caught mid-snoop.

“As we are to be colleagues, I must insist you call me Minerva. We do not stand on ceremony here amongst staff.” The tartan-robed matriarch crossed to where Rocana stood, still eyeing the object that had captivated her attention. “Yes, strange thing, isn’t it? I have no earthly idea what it does. Refuses to be moved too. I imagine it’s protected by something of Dumbledore’s doing.”

Rocana noted a hint of sadness around the headmistress’s eyes. As quickly as it appeared, it was gone.

“Please sit,” Minerva said as she settled herself behind the ornate, oaken desk that served as the nucleus of the room. “Figgy!”

A little house-elf popped into view, already prostrated in a bow, pink-tufted ears brushing the floor. “Yes, Missy Headmistress,” the elf squeaked. “How can Figgy serve?”

“Tea, please, Figgy. Oh, and some of those lovely chocolate biscuits, I think.”

“Yes, Mistress. Figgy lives to serve Most Honorable Headmistress of Hogwarts.” And with that, the little elf vanished from sight with the same soft noise that had heralded her arrival. Rocana mused that Figgy’s disapparation sounded a bit like the popping of Muggle bubble wrap.

“Now, I trust your journey back across the pond was a pleasant one, Miss Rowntree?”

“Very much so, thank you. Although, as you said, we’re to be colleagues. Please call me Rocana.”

“Very well,” said Minerva. “I must say, Rocana, that everyone here at Hogwarts is most excited to welcome you to the fold. I assure you that the physical damage you undoubtedly saw on your way in is nothing compared to the emotional scars etched on the people who fought here. And while the trauma is still fresh, we believe the best way to heal is to restore as much normality as quickly as possible.”

“A wise decision, I imagine,” said Rocana. Her eyes suddenly found her lap fascinating. “I admit, Minerva, that I carry a sense of guilt over not having been here to fight alongside --”

“Nonsense, my dear. I’ll have none of that,” Minerva interrupted, holding up a hand to halt her. “You were exactly where you should have been. Had you been here, well … who knows how that may have changed the course of events. What is important is that the Light won, and you’re here now to play a very important role in picking up the pieces,” Minerva assured her.

“That’s kind of you to say, Minerva. But I think that’s just it -- I’ve never felt, until now, of course, that I was exactly where I should be. From not being able to attend Hogwarts, to not being here to fight against Voldemort … I just feel as if I’ve been sheltered from some of the most important events of our world,” Rocana admitted.

“Tosh! You’ve done more than your share. How many Obscurials were able to come here to Hogwarts, something they should never have been able to do, mind you, and fight for their school? Their freedom? Their very world?

“Without you and your amazing gift,” said Minerva indicating to Rocana’s gloved hands folded in her lap, “those children wouldn’t have made it past age ten. That’s not even taking into consideration the many you helped while in the States.

“You’re the only Obscurmagus known to exist in the wizarding world. Do you have _any_ idea how special you are? You do what no one else can: you save these most special of children from death by their own magic. Don’t ever doubt that you have played, and will continue to play, a vital role in the lives of all magical children,” Minerva huffed.

The headmistress leaned back in her chair, seemingly finished with her rant. She picked up her teacup and peered over the rim at the young witch seated across from her, waiting for her words to take root. Rocana sat there gobsmacked. She had never had someone other than her own family act so protective of her before. And this was meeting the headmistress for the first time.

“I … I don’t believe I’ve ever looked at it quite that way,” whispered Rocana, more to herself than Minerva. She nodded. “Thank you for putting things into perspective, Minerva.” _Note to self: don’t end up on the business end of her wand_.

“You are most welcome. Just don’t make me have to set you straight again, dear. That was utterly exhausting.”

The two women shared a laugh that instantly lifted the veil of seriousness that had descended in the room, and tucked into the biscuits that Figgy had left for them. Neither had noticed her return; they had probably scared off the poor little elf with their impassioned tete-a-tete.

“Well,” said Minerva, dabbing the corners of her mouth with a damask napkin and clasping her hands together. “Now that _that’s_ settled, let’s get your contract signed so you can officially be christened the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. As the position is no longer cursed, I expect you to become the longest-tenured DADA instructor this castle has ever known.”

“I certainly intend to, Minerva,” said Rocana with a smile as she put quill to parchment and solidified the deal. As she looped her last ‘e’, she felt the tingle of ancient magic spread from the quill to her fingers. It chased a golden, fizzy path up her arm; across her chest; then settled, warm amber liquid in her heart. She smiled again and flexed her fingers.

“Ready for the grand tour Professor Rowntree?”

“I thought we agreed to dispense with formalities.”

“We did. I just wanted to be the first to address you by your new title,” Minerva said as she stood and straightened herself into a visage of mock haughtiness and gave Rocana a conspiratorial wink.

Just as they made to leave, Argus Filch came flying into the headmistress’s office like his arse was on fire.

“Marm! Marm!” Filch was running in place.

“For Merlin’s sake, slow down you imbecile! What _is_ it?”

Filch stopped, took a fortifying breath and began anew, “Sorry, Marm,” he panted. The calm was short lived. He was running in place again. “Marm! Professors Flitwick and Sinistra are arguing over the repairs to the Astronomy Tower. They look about ready to hex each other!”

Easily spent, Filch stopped and leaned over, bracing his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.

“Eh. It seems the old adage is true -- a woman’s work is never done. Please excuse me, Rocana. I’m afraid the tour will have to wait. Mr. Filch, would you please collect yourself and be so kind as to show Professor Rowntree to her quarters while I go sort those two out?”

“Yes, Marm.”

“Erm … actually, it’s ok. I’m sure you have more important matters to attend to, Mr. Filch. I can find my way. Thank you, Minerva, for the tea and sympathy,” Rocana said graciously.

“You’re most welcome, dear. Perhaps we can meet again after dinner?”

“Perfect. Until then,” Rocana bowed her head towards the headmistress. She let Filch and Minerva go ahead of her on the way out. The plain truth was that, even though she felt a tad guilty about it, Filch gave her the creeps.

As she reached the bottom of the stairs, levitated her trunk, and turned to leave, she looked back at the gargoyle once more. Stony. Impassive. _Move along, nothing to see here, folks_. She made a mental note to ask Minerva about the gargoyle and offer to assist in the repairs to the castle when they met again after dinner.

Rocana set off toward the Serpentine Corridor. She and Minerva had already agreed, during the several owls that had passed between the two prior to her arrival, that it made sense that her quarters be just off the third floor DADA classroom. She figured she’d drop off her belongings, then treat herself to a self-guided tour of her new home. She could unpack after dinner. As she journeyed through the halls, she thought, _I wonder what other peculiarities I might find here ..._


	2. Locus Alienus (Strange Room)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rocana begins exploring the castle but doesn't get very far. She stumbles upon a mysterious room in which she 'meets' a mysterious man. Curiouser and curiouser ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The usual disclaimer: All recognizable people, places, and things are property of J.K. Rowling. Rocana, the term "Obscurmagus", all original spells, and the plot are mine.
> 
> As always, kudos and comments are the sustenance that feeds fanfic writers. ;)
> 
> Enjoy!

**Previously on “Et Anima Mea” …**

 

_“Rocana set off toward the Serpentine Corridor. She and Minerva had already agreed, during the several owls that had passed between the two prior to her arrival, that it made sense that her quarters be just off the third floor DADA classroom. She figured she’d drop off her belongings, then treat herself to a self-guided tour of her new home. She could unpack after dinner. As she journeyed through the halls, she thought_ , I wonder what other peculiarities I might find here …”

 

**Chapter 2**

**Locus alienus (Strange Room)**

 

Rocana had discovered the egress to her quarters just off the back of her new office, hidden behind an oil rendering of, of all things, a grindylow breaking the surface of the Black Lake. _Probably a leftover ‘treasure’ from one of my predecessors_ , she mused. She had decided to change into what she would wear to dinner in the likely event she lost track of time while exploring the castle.

She traded her two-piece velveteen riding habit and top hat for a short-sleeved, empire-waisted chemise in cream with a robin’s egg blue overlay. With a graceful sweep of her hand, her amethyst tresses morphed from the tight chignon at her nape into a lofty pile of curls with tendrils cascading over a matching bandeau of twisted crepe adorned with rosettes. “Victorian by day, Regency by night” was her motto. When her day called for stern and professional, she preferred bustled hobble skirts of watered silk paired with tight-fitting bodices with encased boning. Corsets were just too much bloody work even _with_ magic. Her style was reminiscent of what Muggles referred to as “Steampunk” fashion. Call it whatever you like, being ‘encased’ in her clothing made Rocana feel contained and in control of herself -- comforts she had craved since childhood. During times that didn’t call on her to use her ‘gift,’ she sought physical and emotional freedom. In fact, it was not unheard of to find her aloft on her broom at night, higher than birds dream to soar, completely skyclad with her waist-length hair billowing behind her locked in battle with the winds -- the wizarding world’s answer to Lady Godiva.

No matter her manner of dress, there were gloves. Always the gloves. They were the one protection she could not forego. It was nigh on impossible to keep oneself mindful and grounded every second of waking life. There were still times when she could accidentally brush her hand against another and be dragged under by the bombardment of their magic. Her ability, which set her apart from all others, was also the sacrifice she had borne since birth. Never touching. Never connecting. Always on the outside looking in.

Rocana sighed and smoothed her hands down the front of her dress. She had an hour before dinner with her new colleagues. _Time to explore._

 

**~~**

 

Rocana figured she would start at the top floor of the main part of the castle and work her way down to the Great Hall. Once again, the portraits became whispering companions, the theme music to her journey. She hoped her novelty would wear off sooner rather than later.

She came to one particularly peculiar tapestry that instantly captured her notice. _What in the nine circles of Hell_ … It was a depiction of a foppish fellow attempting to teach ballet to a group of tutu-clad -- _Are those? Oh my, they are --_ trolls! _Well, now I’ve seen it all._

No sooner had that thought flitted through Rocana’s mind than what she heard a shifting, stretching noise like someone trying to pry rusty nails from warped wood. She slowly turned towards the sound and saw that a door, made of stone and carved with several fleurs-de-lis, stood where there had been none before. _I stand corrected._

Rocana was frozen to the spot. Her mind warred with itself on whether or not she should go near it. _Have I finally gone round the twist?_ She felt a tingling sensation growing and niggling in her like a reined-in sneeze. She felt she would absolutely _burst_ if she didn’t …  

After looking up and down the corridor, Rocana approached the door, hand trembling as she pressed it to the stone. The doors gave a sudden lurch inward and she almost jumped clean out of her skin. The adage “curiosity killed the cat” didn’t exist for no reason. Still, Rocana believed the castle would never reveal something to her magical inhabitants that would truly cause them harm. Perhaps it was merely a ‘hiccough’ in the castle’s magic. After all, she _was_ in a state of deep repair; anything could happen during times like these. _Surely, a peek inside would be in order._

Rocana shut her eyes tight, tried to ignore her heart pistoning in her chest, and drew in a calming breath all the way down to her toes. She opened her eyes again just as the doors opened, in turn, to their full extent. What lay beyond was most unexpected. She wasn’t sure exactly _what_ she had been expecting, but this wasn’t it. She suddenly felt like Alice holding the looking glass.

While the room itself wasn’t wide nor deep, the walls stretched upwards so far that the ceiling was almost undetectable. Both walls and ceiling, and, she guessed, the floor, had been completely charred. The floor remained in question only because over it lay a sumptuous Persian rug bearing an intricate design of the Tree of Life upon it. Rocana knew there was only one thing that could cause this level of immolation and leave the acrid odor of burnt magic behind: Fiendfyre.

She continued to take in her odd surroundings. Centered on the back wall was a large, open fireplace with a cast iron surround, and within it, orange flames ascended in flickering licks. Before the fire, stood a red brocade scroll-armed fainting couch. Rocana moved towards it and skirted her fingers over the smooth ebony back, which was carved into what resembled a cresting wave and bore raised cherubims, each holding a lyre in their chubby arms. If one could ignore the burnt structure around it, the scene looked like a warm, inviting drawing room.

Rocana’s eyes finally traveled upward to the image that seemed to hold court over the entire room. Hanging directly above the fireplace was an oil painting of a man who looked as if he had been severely beaten. Raven hair spilled like overflowing ink onto a pair of squared shoulders, and the ebony eyes that pleaded out from behind their sunken homes seemed to stare not _at_ Rocana, but _into_ her. She took in his bruised and battered countenance and wondered, _What in the world happened to this wretched soul? And_ why _? Moreover, why would someone want to paint him?_

As impossible as it seemed, the room appeared as if someone or something had provided this setting as a means for someone -- _her_ \-- to sit and look at this man. But why? She walked around the couch and perched on the edge, ready to run or fight if things went pear-shaped. She tilted her head to the side in forlorn study of the man before her. _Who is he … what happened to him … who would want to hurt him this way ..._

As these questions churned within her, Rocana began to feel a sleepiness settling over her. She fought to keep her eyes open, knowing she was cutting it close to making it to dinner on time, but the heaviness was caressing her and tucking her in like the softest blanket. She stretched out and laid her head on the couch’s matching roll pillow. _Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to close my eyes for just … a … few … minutes …_

 

**~~**

 

When Rocana opened her eyes, she stood in complete darkness. She could feel an oppressive presence in the room clinging to her skin in a dank layer. She was afraid to move from where she was standing. Surely she was dreaming, yet she felt completely lucid. It was cold wherever she was.

“Hello? Is there anyone here?” Her voice sounded so small. She rubbed fiercely at her arms trying to warm herself.

Silence.

But … no … wait … off in the distance … the faint, raspy breathing of someone in distress. Then gut-wrenching sobs. The darkness started to open in a tunnel shape, giving way to a flickering of candlelight at the far end. Rocana felt herself moving towards the sounds.

“H-hello?  Can you hear me? A-are you hurt?” she called out through chattering teeth. Her voice echoed as if she were surrounded by metal and stone. Maybe she was. In the distance, water dripped a steady rhythm.

The sobbing had subsided into hitching gulps of air. As she drew closer, and the cone of light widened, she could see a man. Even though he had his back to her and was hunched, barely able to stand, she could tell he was tall. A long, heavy black cloak hung from his shoulders. He was gripping the mantle of an unlit fireplace in a room that looked like it was in some sort of dungeon. Trying to right himself, he lost his balance and staggered back. That’s when she saw it -- leaning up against the fireplace was the same painting of the man in the charred room! But the painting looked … different somehow. The man in this painting wasn’t as badly battered as the one in the room in which she had fallen asleep.

“Excuse me,” she said gently, not wanting to startle him.

He didn’t acknowledge her. Instead, he pulled a curved silver dagger from the pocket in his cloak and held it aloft. The candlelight reflected a golden glow upon the blade. Her curiosity kept her rooted, unable to react to the instinct that screamed at her to run at him. Somehow get the dagger away from him.

“No!” she screamed as he drew the blade deep across the palm of his right hand. Once again, the man gave no sign that he heard her. She was a mere observer to this horror that was playing out before her.

The man sunk to his knees, placing his bleeding hand against the painting. He began to mutter something; a chant. Rocana stepped closer.

_“Accipe meum sanguinem,_

_Accipe meum peccatum,_

_Inquinat culpa mea est anima imago._

_Tutum est corpus meum,_

_Tutum est anima mea,_

_Sed ego manere tota.”_

Right before her eyes, the painting transformed. The blood absorbed into the surface. The face, which had previously appeared only slightly worn and drawn, was now bruised and gaunt like the face in the charred room. The man dropped the dagger and pulled his wand from his sleeve. As he traced it across his wound, she watched his skin slowly knit itself back together. When he righted himself and turned around to reveal his pale face -- dirty except for the narrow tracks where his tears had washed him clean -- Rocana nearly fainted. Aside from the fact that he appeared to be completely unharmed, the man standing in front of her was the spitting image of the man in the paintings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Accipe meum sanguinem,  
> Accipe meum peccatum,  
> Inquinat culpa mea est anima imago.  
> Tutum est corpus meum,  
> Tutum est anima mea,  
> Sed ego manere tota.”
> 
> "Take my blood,  
> Take my sin,  
> My guilt will stain the image within.  
> Safe is my body,  
> Safe is my soul,  
> My image shatters but I remain whole."
> 
> (If anything in the translation of my original 'spell' is amiss, don't blame me; blame Google Translator, k?)
> 
> Other biz:
> 
> \- I know the RoR has always required people to pass outside of it three times while thinking about what they need, but there's a reason Rocana didn't have to do that. Only, you'll have to wait for a later chapter to find out why. Don't kill me.
> 
> \- Just in case anyone besides me was thinking that "Steampunk" is a new term, it isn't. The term was coined in 1987.
> 
> \- If anyone is unfamiliar with the tern "skyclad", it means "naked."
> 
> \- In the event you should care to see what Rocana's style of dress is modeled after (uh, minus the riding crop), take a look at her Victorian look here: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/452048881325298321/
> 
> Regency look here: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/202380576975590637/


	3. Historia Aliena (Strange Story)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: All recognizable people, places and things are the property of J.K. Rowling. The only things I lay claim to are: the character of Rocana Rowntree, the term “Obscurmagus”, the plot, and the spells that Rocana has up her sleeve.
> 
> Thank you to those who have given kudos and bookmarked this story. It truly means a lot.

**Previously on “Et Anima Mea …?” …**

 

_ “The man dropped the dagger and pulled his wand from his sleeve. As he traced it across his wound, she watched his skin slowly knit itself back together. When he righted himself and turned around to reveal his pale face -- dirty except for the narrow tracks where his tears had washed him clean -- Rocana nearly fainted. Aside from the fact that he appeared to be completely unharmed, the man standing in front of her was the spitting image of the man in the paintings.” _

  
  


**Chapter 3**

 

Rocana emerged from the murky vision with a gasp of the drowning.  _ So much despair.  _ Every detail was tattooed on the inside of her eyelids -- the painting, the blood, the man grabbing the painting and all but running up the moving staircases and through the corridors to pace in front of the room until the door appeared … the very room in which she still lay. She sat up and waited for the room to stop its tilt.

Rocana had no idea how much time had passed. Ten minutes? An hour? She fully planned on discussing her experience with Minerva the instant dinner was over, if she hadn’t already missed it. Standing on legs that seemed intent on failing her, she took one last look at the painting. Under her gaze, the oily surface began to bubble and melt until all that remained was a mess of running paint bordered by a frame, and the memory of his face.

_ It’s as if the painting is … _ dying.

The entire frame absorbed completely into the wall.

_ The way his blood did into the painting _ .

In its place, a pristine square of unremarkable wall bordered by soot, a mocking testament to an existence no more.

_ I have to get out of here. _

She hastened to the door and flung it wide.

_ What the _ …

She suddenly found herself standing in the entrance to the Great Hall, agape and facing a large, round table populated with her new colleagues. She spun back. Where the burnt sitting room had been just a trice ago was now nothing but a completely ordinary corridor.

“Rocana, dear, you look as though you’ve seen a ghost,” called Minerva.

Rocana turned back toward Minerva just as she heard a high-pitched cackling in the hallway. Snapping her head around, she saw a transparent, maniacal court jester-looking fellow swooping towards her.

“Hee hee hee wheeeeeeeeeeeeee! Row-cah-nuh she’s the one, poor little Snape-y needs some fun!” Ha ha haaaaaaaaaaa! WHEE-HEE-HEEEEEE!”

“Peeves!”

Just as Minerva shouted, Peeves passed clean through Rocana, floated around the corner and out of sight, leaving her covered with the chill of the dead. Minerva hurried to her and put an arm around her shivering shoulders.

“Don’t mind him, dear. He always tries to rile newcomers. Despite having some of the most powerful witches and wizards in this castle, no one has managed to figure out a way to get rid of that nasty numpty,” Minerva said with a huffy shake of her head.

After Minerva steered her toward the only open place at the table, Rocana collapsed into the chair, grateful for the respite. Even though she had just had the wits scared out of her, she was glad the poltergeist had shown up when he did. He gave her a plausible excuse for the mask of unmitigated shock she knew she still wore.

Rocana looked forward to her meeting with Minerva even more now than she had before. She hoped the headmistress would have some answers. If she didn’t, Rocana knew who would. It would just be a matter of how to arrange that particular meeting.

Thankfully, dinner seemed to move along without event. She managed to eat a little, not wanting to draw any more unwanted attention. Mental images of the strange room and her ‘dream’ were creating a hysterical feeling that was bubbling up in her chest, threatening to make itself known in a blitz of giggles she didn’t think she would be able to stop if it started. She focused on smiling with what she hoped was warmth and not mania, and picked at her food.

One by one, each of the professors introduced themselves and told her which subjects they taught. It was quite a diverse group and everyone seemed to have personalities that fit perfectly with their chosen subjects. She only heard about half of what was said to her, though, and the voices sounded distant and hollow at that. Her ears finally homed in on the dinner conversation when she heard Professor Flitwick mention a ‘Professor Snape.”

_ Was  _ that _ who Peeves had referred to as ‘Snape-y?’ _

She looked around and noted there were as many professors as there were subjects. Intrigued, she whispered to Hagrid, “Is there anyone missing from dinner?”

“Ah, tha’ad be Professor Snape. He’s in the infirmary. He’ll be there for qui’ a while, I ‘spect. You-Know-Who’s snake almos’ did ‘im in. He’s go’ figh’ in ‘im, though, tha’ man. We all though’ he ‘ad turned, yeh see. Yeh know, went to You-Know-Who’s side? Bu’ he was Dumbledore’s man through an’ through ...,” said Hagrid as his voice trailed off, choking with emotion.

Rocana saw a fat tear slowly make its way down Hagrid’s face and settle in his bushy beard. He swiped at it with a quick, hefty hand.

“Hmmph …,” came Professor Sprout’s voice from the other side of Hagrid. “Could have fooled me.”

Hagrid’s fist dropped on the table like Thor’s hammer, causing the silverware, and everyone at the table, to jump. “Well he had ter act tha’ way didn’ he? Yeh heard wha’ Harry said.”

She ‘hmmph’d’ again.

Not wanting to witness a row, Rocana changed the subject and created a much-needed diversion from both her distracting thoughts and Hagrid’s almost-tiff with Professor Sprout.

“I wondered if I might stop by tonight and see how Haggis is getting along?”

“O’course, o’ course. Yer welcome anytime. He an’ Fang are gonna be grea’ pals. I can already tell. They’re keepin’ an eye on Tumnus righ’ now.”

“Tumnus?” Rocana was almost afraid to ask.

“Ah, he’s  niffler, yeh see. I won ‘im in a game o’ cards yesterday,” Hagrid said with a proud nod.

“A  _ niffler _ ?”

“Yeah, He’s turnin’ out teh be a wee bit o’ a handful, though.”

“Erm … I didn’t think nifflers were meant to be kept indoors.”

“Aw, Codswallop. He’ll be fine once he gets settled in.”

“Hagrid, I don’t mean to worry you, but Haggis is a Scottish terrier. They were bred to hunt rodentia …”

“Oop,” Hagrid barked as he jumped up, nearly upsetting the entire table, “I better be gettin’ back teh the boys then.” Hagrid lumbered away as quickly as his tree trunks would carry him, leaving everyone to wonder what had just happened -- except Rocana who was desperately trying, and failing, to stifle her giggles. The mental image of Haggis giving chase to a niffler was just what she needed to release some of the tension that had been her constant dinner companion.  

As soon as everyone was finished eating, Rocana waited for the headmistress to rise before approaching her.

“Minerva, might we speak privately for a moment?”

“Certainly, dear. Will my office do?”

 

****~~****

 

Rocana settled across from Minerva and trifled with a loose thread on her satin opera gloves. She puffed out a small, shallow breath. 

“Headmist --,” a stern eyebrow raised at the honorific. “Pardon,  _ Minerva _ , I … well, I don’t even know where to begin.”

“I find the beginning is always a good place to start,” said Minerva, “Tea?”

“No, thank you.”  _ Yes. Better to just have out with it. Here goes nothing -- _

Rocana opened her mouth to relate her fantastic story to the headmistress, hoping it wasn’t going to gush out in one long, unintelligible burble, when she was interrupted by a polite cough from behind Minerva’s shoulder. Professor Dumbledore was sitting in his portrait looking most interested.

“Ah, do forgive me. Albus, this is Professor Rocana Rowntree; she’s taking up the post of Defence Against the Dark Arts. Rocana, this is Former Headmaster Albus Dumbledore.”

“It is good to see you again, Rocana,” said Dumbledore from behind his twinkling aquamarines.

“ _ Again …, _ ” Minerva looked confused.

“Yes … you see, I was just returning to my portrait here as you were both leaving this morning,” explained Dumbledore.

“It’s lovely to meet you, sir.”

“Likewise, professor. Please continue,” he encouraged.

Rocana walked them through her queerish account, all while cringing internally. When it was just in her head, she maybe could have found a way to explain it away. Maybe. But now that it was out there hanging in the air like a lead balloon, it sounded too fantastic even to her own ears.  _ They’re going to think I’m completely  _ barking _. _

Minerva looked like she had been Confunded, while Dumbledore appeared to be sussing out one of life’s greatest mysteries.

“Curious,” said Dumbledore finally, leaning back and stroking his long, bejeweled beard. “And what were you thinking of just before the door appeared?”

“I was looking at the tapestry of the man teaching ballet to a group of trolls and thinking on how odd it was.”

“Yes, well, there is a reason he is known as ‘Barnabas the  _ Barmy _ ,’” Dumbledore said. “But you were not thinking that you were in need of something? Perhaps, even longing for something?”

“No, nothing like that,” answered Rocana. She hadn’t been longing for anything  _ then _ but sanity was currently tops on her list. She could tell by their reactions that this may be even more unusual than she first had thought.

Minerva finally spoke as if she had just realized there were other people in the room with her. “Albus, what do you think might have caused the door to appear without a need?”

“Just because Professor Rowntree may not have had a need does not mean there wasn’t one.”

“But, Albus -- “

“I do have some suspicions,” Dumbledore interrupted as he sat forward, “but none that I am ready to share yet as they are just that.”

“Pardon, sir. I hope you don’t think me rude, but what  _ exactly _ is going on?”

“Ah … that  _ is _ the question. The room that appeared to you is known as The Room of Requirement or the Come and Go Room. It appears to someone when they have great need of something. It always comes equipped with whatever the seeker requires at the time. I stumbled across it once when in need of the loo. Quite a timely discovery, I must say,” Dumbledore said, seeming to recall some distant, fond memory. He cleared his throat. “Anyway, on the night of the Final Battle, a former student unleashed Fiendfyre into it. We weren’t positive that it had not been damaged beyond repair. It sounds to be in a state of flux.”

“But … the man … is he a real person or just a figment of my, or the room’s, imagination?”

“Oh, no, Rocana … I assure you, he is very real. As a matter of fact, he is here in Hogwarts’ infirmary as we speak, recovering from a rather nasty bite from Voldemort’s familiar, Nagini.”

“ _ Professor Snape _ ?” Rocana recalled his name from dinner.

“The very one,” replied Dumbledore.

“Some of the staff were speaking of him at dinner.”

“I’ve no doubt.” Dumbledore seemed to suspect that some of the talk had been unfavorable. “Rocana, how much do you know about what happened leading up to and during the Final Battle?”

“Just what traveled through the proverbial grapevine. I was constantly on the move with the MACUSA. Often, the Obscurials were being kept in very out-of-the-way places. I’m ashamed to say that I remain ignorant to much of what happened here.”

“Shame is a soul-eating emotion, Rocana -- one which cannot be afforded during times of healing,” Dumbledore said with a wag of a finger, his fatherly eyes wrinkling at the corners. He continued, “Severus Snape is a former Death Eater-turned-spy for the Order of The Phoenix, the organization I formed to fight against Voldemort during the first Wizarding War.

“He has led a very dangerous and tortured life, Rocana. The atrocities he had to endure while appearing to be a loyal Death Eater are unspeakable. I assure you, however, that everything he did was for the greater good. He took no enjoyment in the things he had to participate in to maintain his charade -- including the very reason I am speaking to you from a portrait. In his perceived loyalty, he was promoted to Voldemort’s second-in-command and to Headmaster of Hogwarts upon my death.

“Of course, once promoted to Headmaster, he was being pulled in different directions at all times: trying to run Hogwarts while keeping the students safe from the sadistic punishments of Amycus and Alecto Carrow, being at Voldemort’s beck and call, and all the while trying to aid Harry Potter and his friends in the finding and destruction of Voldemort’s horcruxes …

“In order to maintain his ruse all these years, he has had to operate alone in the shadows -- the problem with shadows is that they are completely devoid of all light. Severus has persevered like a stubborn weed, knowing the light exists, even straining towards it, but being ever unable to bask in it. Those he should have been able to call ‘friend’ were pushed away in the name of protection. But when you push people away for long enough, regardless of the reason, they stop trying to come back. That is why you heard some of the professors speaking ill of Severus. My greatest fear now is that the shadows may have missed him so much that they’ve called him back.”

The chord that Severus’s tale struck in Rocana vibrated in her chest like a tuning fork, thrumming and metallic. She saw flashes and echoes of every single time throughout her life she’d had to keep people at arm’s length, interacting with others as if through a pane of glass. While she had never been forced to inflict pain upon anyone, or take a life, Rocana could still empathize with him on a level that only others starved of touch and human comfort could understand.

“As we speak, Severus is still lying in a coma. He has shown no progress or improvement of any kind. His injuries have been impervious to all healing spells. Any diagnostic spells cast on him have been inconclusive. The infirmary staff took to stitching him up the Muggle way, yet if the stitches were removed at this very moment, the wounds would gape as if freshly made. It is as if there is something dark blocking his magical pathways, preventing his body from aiding in its own healing.”

Those last words freight trained through Rocana’s ears and straight to the pit of her stomach where they thudded, dead weight. It instantly became clear why she had been shown the vision. She was not only here to help and teach the children; but she was also here to save Severus Snape.

Dumbledore released a long-suffering sigh. “I suppose there is no reason to beat about the bush after all. If what I suspect is true, and it can somehow help Severus get his health and his life back, there is no point in not being forthcoming.”

Minerva could have been knocked off her chair with a Phoenix feather. Although she considered Albus her dearest friend, and had for years, she had never agreed with his penchant for withholding information all in the name of the ‘greater good,’ often leaving people to bumble about trying to figure things out on their own after being given a mere scrap of cryptic information. It seemed that times were indeed changing.

“I believe that Hogwarts is experiencing a heightened state of sentient ability. I also believe that the Room of Requirement may not be responding to others’ needs for the time being; rather, it may be showing  _ us _ what  _ the castle _ needs now. Even though Severus was forced to physically abandon his post as Headmaster, I do not think it was his heart’s desire to do so. I am of a mind that Hogwarts may still consider Severus to be her true headmaster.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In doing research for this fic, it came to my attention that “Tempus” is a fanon spell. Personally, I enjoy some fanon tidbits, but I have heard that it can be off-putting to some readers. I went back to Chapter 1 and removed it. That’s why Rocana didn’t cast it in this chapter when she wondered what time it was. ;)
> 
> I want to give major credit to Swiss Miss over at www.fictionalley.org for the super helpful article on how to properly write Hagrid’s dialect. Even though I said I would be taking some artistic license, I was referring more to the plot. I’m trying to stay as true to canon with personalities, manners of speech, terms, etc.
> 
> Insider info: I own two Scottish terriers, Rufus and Maisie. Haggis the Ham is completely and shamelessly based on Rufus -- even down to the ‘two-handed’ wave he does when he wants something (e.g. treats, to get up on my lap, lubbies). He is currently sitting next to me wishing nifflers were real.
> 
> As always, thank you for your support and readership <3
> 
> Next up: Rocana visits Severus Snape in the infirmary and discovers something sinister at work. Rocana’s secret is revealed and a plan is devised.


	4. Primum Contactum (First Contact)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rocana pays a visit to the infirmary and makes a 'connection' with Severus Snape, while Albus and Minerva engage in an enlightening conversation in the Headmistress's office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who is following my story and to those who have left kudos and comments. They make my day. A very special thank you to Desert_Sea for promoting my story in the A/N's of her story "Doing It for the Order." If you have not read it, you should definitely check it out. All the cool kids read her stories. ;-) Seriously, though, she's awesome.
> 
> In RL, I write flash fiction and short fiction. This will be the longest fic of any kind I have undertaken. If you notice a plot hole or come across something that doesn't make sense, PLEASE don't hesitate to point it out. I will either explain or fix it if it's something glaring.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy the new chapter!

**Previously on "Et Anima Mea ... ?"**

___ “I believe that Hogwarts is experiencing a heightened state of sentient ability. I also believe that the Room of Requirement may not be responding to others’ needs for the time being; rather, it may be showing  us what  the castle needs now. Even though Severus was forced to physically abandon his post as Headmaster, I do not think it was his heart’s desire to do so. I am of a mind that Hogwarts may still consider Severus to be her true headmaster.” _

 

_ “So I float in the ether, pasty skin crawling with regret." _

 - “Disintegration” by Richard Thomas

 

**Chapter 4**

**Primum Contactum (First Contact)**

 

Severus Snape lay on a standard infirmary bed covered by a starch-white sheet that would have provided contrast against a healthier person’s colouring. Without his inky hair reigning over the bleached landscape, he may as well have been Disillusioned. On the left side of his neck, his life force seeped into a Rorschach blot on the dressing like crimson snow after a rabbit hunt.

The air was crisp with the smell of medicinal potions and cleaning solutions employed to staunch the onslaught of germs, even the most innocuous of which could threaten his fragile state.

Rocana saw what must have been a feeding tube coming from his authoritative nose. She watched his chest gently rise and fall like a neap tide, understanding why Madam Pomfrey had been so reluctant at first to let her visit him. He was as helpless as a newborn.

As if on cue, the matron swept aside the privacy curtain and bustled in, carrying three pouches of jewel-coloured potions. Rocana stepped back to allow her the breadth she needed to perform her healing duties and watched the well-choreographed routine.

“Draught of Peace. He gets this four times a day,” she said, holding up the bag containing the turquoise liquid. She charmed it to float above her patient’s right side, then set about detaching a spent pouch from the end of the feeding tube and attaching the fresh pouch. Rocana’s eyes followed the route of the liquid from the pouch, through the tubing, and into his nose.

She held the next, much smaller pouch aloft. It contained a viscous potion of shimmering gold. “Girding Potion for strength and endurance. Long-lasting. I gave him one dose when he first arrived -- this is his second. This,” Madam Pomfrey said, placing the garnet-coloured bag on the bedside table next to the gold one, “is the Blood-Replenishing Potion. Once hourly.”

Rocana, of course, had had questions and was grateful that Madam Pomfrey seemed to intuit this. She offered up the information preemptively, saving Rocana from having to ask and possibly appearing to question her methods or competence.

“Oh, I almost forgot … I’ll be back in a tick.”

Rocana watched her leave and then returned her attention to the man on the receiving end of the life-saving elixirs. From what Minerva and Dumbledore had told her, this was a proud and formidable man who wielded a sharp tongue but had the heart of a soldier. He had made enormous sacrifices, placing himself in harm’s way time and again to protect the children of Hogwarts. He had laid down his life for others, and now he lay unconscious, his body ravaged and being nourished by potions until he could be rescued from his dark prison. If he could be rescued.

_ Where is he? Does he have any sense of self-awareness or what has happened to him? _

Madam Pomfrey came back into the room holding yet another pouch containing what looked like creamed chicken soup.

“And that?”

“His supper.”

After completing Professor Snape’s potions regimen in the stretching silence and hanging his “supper” next to him to let gravity do its job, she turned to Rocana and gave a curt nod. “I’ll leave you to him, then.”

Rocana admired Madam Pomfrey’s method; she was practical and efficient without sacrificing tenderness. She waved a chair over next to the bed. She could now just sit and observe him uninterrupted - at least for an hour, until his next Blood Replenisher would need to be administered.

Rocana leaned forward and really took him in. She recalled the anguish she had heard in his cries, how his tale of woe had been written on his face. His skin appeared oddly smooth now, save for the deep furrow between his brows. She wanted to run her thumb through the crease to see if it would smooth out like the rest of his face, or if it would knit back to form the way his palm had after healing it from the dagger’s slice.

The infirmary was eerily quiet with most of the war-injured already healed and back to everyday life to complete their recovery within the fold of their loved ones. Did  _ he _ have any loved ones? From what Dumbledore said, it didn’t sound like it. Leading a double life doesn’t exactly lend itself to forming close relationships. No, aside from the visits from a few colleagues, this man lay solitary and in complete darkness. No offense to Albus or Minerva or Madam Pomfrey, but considering the sacrifices this man had made, he deserved to bask in the blinding light of thousands rather than a few flickering flames that, no matter how well-intentioned, barely shed light on his heroic deeds.

She sat for a time, watching, listening to the only sound to be heard - his rhythmic breathing, deceptively even for someone who was probably in the greatest distress of his life.

On the one hand, she wanted to just do it - just rip off her glove and touch him. But she knew the dangers of that. He would most likely, albeit unwittingly, pull her under and Madam Pomfrey would return to find two unconscious people instead of one. It wouldn’t do to scare her.  

She looked at his left hand, nearer her. In one way, it was a hand like any other, unremarkable but for the paleness and the bluish veins on the back, raised and spidering down to his fingers. Fingers more akin to a pianist’s than a Potions Master’s. Delicate … _elegant_ … fingers. Okay, not so unremarkable after all.

She found that while she had been roving over his hand with her eyes, her own hand had joined in the pursuit, gently mapping the cool terrain. As though mesmerized, she turned his hand over and began inching her caress up the inside of his wrist to trace along his Morsmordre, silvery and faded with the death of its maker. She felt as if she were being pulled into his skin the way she had been pulled into the vision in the Room of Requirement. Slipping into a warm bath. She suddenly realized that given what had been told to her of this intensely private and stoic man, he would probably be mortified to learn that a strange woman had handled his person in this manner. She let her fingers drift against his skin as she pulled her hand away, feeling a frisson of wonder that the skin of his inner wrist seemed as soft as the satin encasing her fingers. Just as she began lifting her fingers from where they had lingered on the lines of his palm, he snatched her hand with the suddenness of a drowning man clutching at a lifeline.

She gasped, eyes flying to his face. Nothing … nothing had changed in his expression, his body, nothing, save for the vice-like grip in which he held her hand. She tried to pull away gently so as not to injure him further, but he held fast to her with a strength that belied his condition.

Before she could decide on a course of action, Madam Pomfrey popped back around the curtain. Instead of beginning her intended task of affixing a new Blood Replenisher to Professor Snape’s feeding tube, she was stopped by the panic-stricken face of Rocana trying to pull her hand loose from said comatose man’s grip.

“What happened? What did you do?”

“Nothing. I … I just touched his hand,” Rocana explained while gingerly attempting to free her hand.

“You have upset my patient,” the matron accused as she moved to his side to assist. She tried individually prying his fingers open and from around Rocana’s hand. When that failed to yield the desired result, she leaned over and said, “Severus, if you can hear me, you’re safe. Remember? You’re in the infirmary at Hogwarts -”

“Ouch!” Rocana cried out as his grip momentarily tightened further. She was struck by a moment of inspiration.

Leaning in and speaking in a soft, dulcet tone, she said, “Professor Snape? My name is Rocana … it’s my hand you're holding.” His grip tightened again. “I’m here to try and help you. Will you let me do that?” His grip slackened slightly and then tightened again. Rocana took that as an affirmative response.

She looked to Madam Pomfrey who had not only backed away but had also witnessed her patient’s reaction. The matron was standing there wide-eyed and vibrating with a mixture of waning indignance and burgeoning hope. She was trying to still her trembling chin.

“Can you,” she asked quietly, watery eyes still holding Professor Snape. “Can you help him?”

 

****~~****

 

There was nothing … save for the darkness, the excruciating pain in his neck, and whatever the oily, rubbery substance was that was holding him down. It branched over his face, torso, and a good portion of his limbs like ganglial veins threading through a tumor. Struggling was futile. He had already tried. It was taut but stretchy and had just enough give to fool someone into thinking they could work free of it, only to be snapped back into prostration. He was a turtle on its back. The only sight available to his searching eyes was the memory that played over and over, his penance.

_ SLASH _

_ ‘Nagini, … KILL.’ _

_ SLASH _

_ ‘Nagini, … KILL.’ _

_ SLASH … _

He had no idea how long he had been in the darkness. At some point, it had ceased to matter. Wherever he was or whatever he was now was irrelevant. His life had been a living Hell, so whatever came after in death would neither surprise nor disappoint him.

As he started to settle into his lament, something happened. A new kind of sensation was beginning to filter through the sinewy blackness holding him down. Something soft. It began as a tickling against the back of his left hand. As it lingered there, he began to register the texture of silk or satin or something equally soft. The sensation began to travel up the inside of his wrist. It continued up to his inner --

_ No … no … please. Not there. He will come for me … _

But nothing happened. No snake. No Deatheaters. No Dark Lord. Only the cosseting waves of softness. Just as he was preparing to allow himself the tentative abandonment of his fears and to submit to the delicious stroking, it was ebbing away.

_ No … not yet. _

He clenched his fingers, trying to keep the fleeting touch with him.

_ It has been so long … _

A voice. Resonant caramel, flowing through his ears, warming his chest and pooling in a pleasing plashet in his belly.

“Professor Snape? My name is Rocana … it’s my hand you're holding.”

_ Oh … ohh … do angels deign to consort with demons? Would that I could be that fortunate … that deserving. I mustn’t let go. _

“I’m here to try and help you. Will you let me do that?”

_ Yes … please. Oh, please. _

“Can you? Can you help him?”

_ Poppy! I must be in the infirmary, then. But how did that happen -- how am I there when I’m …  _ here?

“Yes. I believe I can.”

“Please don’t think me rude, but I have to ask. I have been taking care of Severus since he was a first year student. I feel a certain … protectiveness of him. Your gift --- your  _ power _ \-- what is it … how does it work?”

_ Yes, what is it? If I am, in fact, in the infirmary, someone must have touched me to bring me here … and to administer medical care to me. Why didn’t I feel the healers touching me? Why can I only feel you? _

Rocana knew this moment would come eventually. She just didn’t expect to have to address the issue so soon.

“I’m sorry, Madam Pomfrey … I don’t know how it works exactly. I only know what it does.” Rocana steeled herself and soldiered on. “If I remove my gloves and lay my hands on a person, I’m able to sense if they have something affecting or blocking their magical pathways. If there is an obstruction there, I can … remove it. I was taught long ago how to focus this power and control it, if that’s your concern.”

“By whom?”

Rocana took a fortifying breath, hoping it would imbue her with the confidence she needed in this moment. It was time. It was critical now, given the circumstances, that the staff of Hogwarts trust her and allow her to help the man still clinging to her hand. 

“Albus Dumbledore.”

“Dumbledore!”

_ Dumbledore … ? _

 

****~~****

 

“Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore! How could you,” Minerva admonished. She was pacing the length of her office, periodically throwing her hands in the air in frustration when words failed her.

“Minny …”

“Don’t you ‘Minny’ me you old coot!” she said, whirling around on his portrait. Dumbledore only used his pet name for her when he truly needed to get through to her or when he needed to manipulate her emotions. “I just don’t understand, Albus. Why lie? Why keep your association with Rocana a secret all this time?”

“You must try to see, Minerva. When I found her, she was more volatile than any child I had ever seen before. Even more so than Tom,” he said, sending a pointed look over the top of his spectacles.

Minerva stopped pacing. She had never heard of any witch or wizard with a level of raw, unchecked power to rival  _ him. _

“Please sit and allow me to explain,” Albus implored, though he chose to remain standing himself.

As ruffled as Minerva was, she didn’t want to waste this moment. It was rare that Dumbledore explained his actions. He had been forthcoming with the information Rocana needed to understand some of Severus Snape’s past. Maybe this was the dawning of a new era. Maybe she could trust him to divulge the method to his madness. She settled into a well-loved armchair next to the crackling fire, pouring herself a finger of Scotch from the crystal decanter on the tea table. She found a modicum of comfort in the way the firelight was cast into a shattered prism against the leaded glass.

“All right, Albus. I’m listening.”

Dumbledore began slowly, “Twenty-five years ago now, I heard mutterings of unexplained magical occurrences in Hammersmith - street lamps exploding, spontaneous thunderstorms when the weather had not called for them, and the like. Upon investigation of the magical trace, the Improper Use of Magic Office discovered that the magic was originating from a Muggle home on Wulfstan Street. I immediately consulted the Book of Acceptance, of course, fully prepared to arrange a visit to the parents of, at minimum, a seven or eight-year-old,” Dumbledore explained. “She was two years old, Minerva …  _ two _ .” He didn’t need to pause for dramatic effect but being Dumbledore, he did, and Minerva’s look of shock didn’t disappoint.

“As you know, I had only been Headmaster here for a short time and we were in the beginnings of the First Wizarding War. I could not allow Voldemort to get wind of a magical child so powerful. He would have stolen her from those Muggles before they knew what had hit them. He would have warped her and used her power for his own nefarious gain.

“While I admit she would have been more protected here at Hogwarts, I could not take her, so young, from her parents. Instead, I placed a magical containment field around her -- one that would allow her parents to touch her without coming to harm, one that would contain her magic without suppressing it, one that would allow her to be touched without overwhelming her and causing  _ her _ harm. One that would allow any future magical outbursts to go undetected by the Ministry of Magic. When she turned five, I began visiting her weekly to help her learn to rein in her magic, and later to hone it. We continued in that fashion for twelve years, until she became of age and her magical trace fell away.

Minerva had calmed and was listening in earnest. She didn’t want to interrupt but couldn’t seem to stop herself. “Albus … what  _ exactly  _ is her power?”

“When she touches another person -- magical or not -- with her bare hands, she goes into some sort of trance and forms a link to their energy. In the case of an Obscurial, her magic instinctively seeks out the Obscurus and seeks to remove it. She, for lack of a better word,  _ absorbs _ the Obscurus into herself. Some power within her even  _ I  _ don’t completely understand neutralizes it, allowing her to release it in a way that prevents it from be able to rebound upon the afflicted.”

“It sounds too fantastic even for magic,” Minerva mused.

“Indeed. But I assure you, it is very real. And quite a thing to behold,” said Dumbledore, his voice trailing off as his eyes seemed to focus on something light years away.

Minerva cleared her throat, bringing him back to the conversation at hand.

“In any event, after Rocana became of age, I sent her to America to assist the MACUSA.”

“But, why, Albus? They have continuously reported to have far fewer instances of Obscurials there than what we have here.”

“Do you really believe that, Minerva,” Dumbledore snapped, growing weary of defending his decisions. “Think of all the things the Ministry has buried under the carpet, things we have  _ known _ to exist. Unfortunately, they are no different,” he said with no small amount of scorn in his voice.

“I still don’t understand why you would send her away and --”

“I believed that there may have been some of Voldemort’s more loyal followers who might have --”

“You kept her from her parents --”

“I had no choice!”

“But she could have helped --”

“Don’t you get it,” Dumbledore thundered, pounding a fist on the back of his portrait chair, body tensing so hard his cheeks shook. “I had to atone!”

“Oh, Albus,” Minerva whispered, chastened by his outburst. The fingers not holding her Scotch fluttered against the brooch at her throat.

He slumped into his chair, all the fight having left him. His voice trembling with emotion, he spoke softly, “I couldn’t let anyone know. I had to distance myself from her, lest … ” He sighed and bowed his head in capitulation. “Lest anyone think I could have led her to suffer the same fate as Ariana.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If Severus seems a little OOC, allow me to explain. I have always imagined him to be a very passionate man in private. He must have been for him to have loved Lily the way he did. He is all alone in his own mind with no one to criticize him for his thoughts or actions. Also, I believe that anyone in his position, trapped in darkness with no assurance of a way out, might begin to feel a tad desperate. Hope that makes sense.
> 
> Next up on "Et Anima Mea ... ?": Rocana informs Albus and Minerva of her experience in the infirmary. Rocana performs a little experiment on Snape which helps her to formulate a plan of action with Albus, Minerva and Poppy.

**Author's Note:**

> Rocana: The goddess daughter of Yajna, the Hindu lord of sacrifice. 
> 
> Rowntree: “One who lives near a rowan tree”. 
> 
> Rowan: The tree of power, causing life and magic to flower. It calls the spirits and banishes them and knows them because it truly lives in multiple worlds at once.
> 
> Obscurmagus: One who is able to help the Obscurial (a witch or wizard who, due to being raised in an environment where their magic is viewed negatively, develops an Obscurus; a dark parasitic force resulting from their own magic being suppressed and tainted by negative emotion) release their Obscurus.


End file.
